


you dream of some epiphany (one single glimpse of relief)

by thesepossessedbylight



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, F/F, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesepossessedbylight/pseuds/thesepossessedbylight
Summary: “12 Holby Court Chambers occupies two floors of an imposing Victorian-era building nestled just inside the boundary of Lincoln’s Inn. It has twelve barristers and sixteen junior barristers, specialising in all areas of commercial law from insolvency, competition, and banking disputes, to shipping and trade, energy, and private international commercial disputes of all kinds.We are delighted to welcome Berenice Wolfe QC to our set. With over fifteen years’ experience in trade arbitration, she has returned from two years’ work in Ecuador, advising the government on its trade strategy and spearheading its response to the West Energy v The Republic of Ecuador arbitration. Having secured a positive result for her client, Berenice has decided to return to London to establish a practice at 12 Holby Court. She specialises in complex trade arbitration cases and has extensive experience in appearing before arbitration panels established by all the major investor-State arbitration bodies.To instruct Berenice to act for you, please contact her clerk, Dominic Copeland, or your usual contact at 12 Holby Court.”AKA The One Where They’re Lawyers
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Alex Dawson/Bernie Wolfe, Serena Campbell/Bernie Wolfe
Comments: 9
Kudos: 53





	you dream of some epiphany (one single glimpse of relief)

“12 Holby Court Chambers occupies two floors of an imposing Victorian-era building nestled just inside the boundary of Lincoln’s Inn. It has twelve barristers and sixteen junior barristers, specialising in all areas of commercial law from insolvency, competition, and banking disputes, to shipping and trade, energy, and private international commercial disputes of all kinds.

We are delighted to welcome Berenice Wolfe QC to our set. With over fifteen years’ experience in trade arbitration, she has returned from two years’ work in Ecuador, advising the government on its trade strategy and spearheading its response to the West Energy v The Republic of Ecuador arbitration. Having secured a positive result for her client, Berenice has decided to return to London to establish a practice at 12 Holby Court. She specialises in complex trade arbitration cases and has extensive experience in appearing before arbitration panels established by all the major investor-State arbitration bodies.

To instruct Berenice to act for you, please contact her clerk, Dominic Copeland, or your usual contact at 12 Holby Court.”

Ding! “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Heathrow Airport. Local time is 9:04 in the morning, Sunday the nineteenth of April and the temperature is twelve degrees outside. For your safety and comfort…”

Berenice “Bernie” Wolfe tunes the rest of the announcement out as she taps her iPad screen to close the chambers homepage. With a few sparse movements, she pulls a medium-sized canvas duffel bag from underneath the seat in front of her, unzips it and stashes her iPad inside. She checks the seat pocket for any stray belongings and chucks the pair of earpods she finds into a pocket on the side of her duffel bag. With a brief sigh, she settles back in her seat and closes her eyes, waiting to disembark.

Flying has always felt like an escape to Bernie: the thrill of experiencing a new place, a new world has always been a tantalising reward for fifteen hours stuck inside a steel tube hurtling through the atmosphere at 518 knots an hour. But her latest journey has been deeply unpleasant in all aspects. Having driven down the nearly empty highway E45 from Nueva Loja, the capital town in the Ecuadorian province of Sucumbíos province, to Quito, only to catch a flight from Quito to Los Angeles and Los Angeles to Heathrow, she’s ready to take a nap, regardless of whatever awaits her at home. Bernie grimaces to herself as she remembers the incredulous look on Alex’s face as she got out of the car at the Mariscal Sucre airport, Alex’s eyes saying what her mouth couldn’t: you’re really going back there? To him?

Still. The decision was made, and here -

She’s yanked out of her musings by the elbows of the woman next to her as she struggles into the aisle, pulling down - is that three bags from the overhead locker? surely not - and coming to an abrupt halt as the aisle promptly fills up. Bernie shrugs, and pulls her phone from her pocket, turning off flight mode.

Bing! One text: from Dom, her clerk.

“The announcement on the website has made an impression. I have a case for you already - looking forward to seeing you tomorrow morning. Get some sleep tonight!”

She grins. Dom knows her workaholic predilections all too well, since he had been her clerk before she left for Ecuador, and he’s one of the reasons she had agreed to rent rooms at 12 Holby Court. As she stands up to make her way down the aisle her thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before she decides to text back. “An interesting case, I hope? Looking forward to seeing you all again, Dom.”

As she emerges into the sterile air of the Heathrow arrivals terminal, she flicks the screen off and stows her phone away in her jacket pocket. She doesn’t bother to check the lines of people waiting with handmade or printed signs, filled with anticipation for their visitors to arrive or families to return. Marcus isn’t the type to make a big fuss over her arrival, even though she’s been away for two years. As she makes her way to the taxi stand she admits reluctantly that the lightening in her chest is relief: she’s going to make a go of things, this time around.. but having to face him off the back of a 28 hour journey is hardly ideal. Better that it wait.

The next morning she wakes at 5am, just before her alarm clock starts to blare. Despite the chill, she swings her feet out of bed, pulling her hair into a sloppy ponytail and dressing hastily in a pair of ratty leggings and a top. She’s out the door and putting her earbuds into her ears before she even starts to wake up, and she’s run a couple of kilometres before she becomes fully aware of where she is. Six kilometres in, the sun is beginning to rise, and she stops beside the Thames to stretch out a cramp in her calf and watch the day beginning, reflecting ruefully that it’s hard to imagine that she was in the lush green jungle of the Amazon only days before.

By 8:30 exactly, Bernie’s made the short trip on the tube to Holby station and is walking briskly across the large square in front of 12 Holby Court Chambers. She wears her usual first-day-of-work clothes: a pale blue silk shirt, black wool trousers and flat loafers, topped with a long pink coat that swirls about her legs as she walks. Feminine enough to seem approachable and friendly on her first day; simple enough to hint that her focus is, at all times, on getting the job done, no fuss, no drama. In her right hand she carries her briefcase and draped over her left arm, a black clothes bag that holds her silk QC’s court gown and wig.

12 Holby Court is housed on the first and second floors of a large Georgian building which sits kitty-corner to one edge of the square. A large brass plaque by the tall, narrow street-facing door announces the names of all the barristers who are tenants at the set, and she pauses before pressing the intercom button to read some of the names: Henrik Hansen, Rick Griffin, Serena Campbell, Raf di Lucca, and Adrian Fletcher. Some she recognises; some she’s worked with before; some she knows by repute. Serena Campbell in particular, she thinks briefly, will be an interesting co-tenant. She’s heard stories - everyone has heard stories about Serena Campbell, the Ice Queen, the best shipping silk in the city - which range from very nearly believable to palpably ludicrous. Some say she once threw a heavy bound Queen’s Bench law report at a hapless junior barrister who had photocopied the wrong case for her; others say that, in revenge for another barrister stealing a particularly profitable client away from her, she phoned up his wife and let her know that the barrister had been sleeping with his secretary for seven years. If the gossip is to be believed, Serena had spilled so many of the barrister’s secrets that the wife knew exactly where and when the barrister and his secretary habitually met, and had confronted them in flagrante delicto with divorce papers. The papers hadn’t been signed by Serena - that would be a step too far for the Law Society Complaints Committee - but they had been witnessed by Serena’s neighbour in her set, and when the barrister ripped open the wife’s envelope, bathrobe flapping indecently open, his face had, apparently, turned puce as the message was well and truly received.

Or so they say: Bernie makes a habit not to listen to idle lawyers’ gossip. But she can’t deny that a tiny part of her is looking forward to meeting Serena in person. She presses the buzzer, and when the tinny voice responds she leans forward and says, “Berenice Wolfe here.”

The voice says, “Oh! Come on up,” and she pulls open the heavy door, walks briskly through the marble hallway and up the stairs to the first floor. She emerges into the chambers’ reception area. The first thing she notices is the enormous, glimmering chandelier suspended above the reception desk. When the sparkles faded from her eyes and she can tear her gaze away, she notices the high stucco ceiling, sculpted and carved into a thousand delicate curlicues in the French style, a mild anachronism but beautiful none the less. Next is the imposing walnut reception desk, the only dark item in the entire room. She glances briefly at the pale slash of newspapers covering one half of the desk: the Financial Times, the Guardian, the Times of London: an adequate spread to cater to all political leanings and to reveal none.

“Bernie Wolfe?” A tall young man with brown hair and an impish smile walks out from a corridor off to the left side of the reception area.

“Dom,” she drops her briefcase on the floor and walks to greet him, one arm outstretched. “Dom Copeland, as I live and breathe. It’s good to see you.”

“And you,” he replies, breathless from their brief but fierce hug. “I heard all sorts of stories about you in the jungle. How was it?”

“I wouldn’t believe half of what you hear,” she says, mock stern but there’s a light in her eyes and her lips are beginning to twist into a smile.

He picks up her briefcase and she lets him, because it’s Dom, because they’ve known each other since Dom was twenty and newly arrived in the City from Essex. Before she left for Ecuador he’d been her clerk for seven years since she was 39, a year before she took silk, one of the youngest barristers in Britain to do so. And now she’s back, and, she supposes, things will carry on as they were before.

They’re heading down a long corridor away from the reception area, passing several meeting rooms with imposing wood doors. Dom points them out, noting that they’re labelled with the names of famous lawyers from common law history: Edward Coke, William Blackstone, Thomas Hoby, and Thomas More. It’s all sufficiently imposing that she’s a little distracted and doesn’t notice the other woman walking down the corridor towards them, one hand balancing a heavy copy of Benjamin’s Sale of Goods and texting on her phone with the other. Bernie doesn’t notice, that is, until it’s nearly too late: and by that time they’ve nearly collided and she drops her clothes bag to clutch at the woman’s shoulders in an effort to keep them both upright.

“Oof,” the woman says, saying it as a word rather than as the surprised exhalation it’s meant to be, and promptly drops Benjamin’s.

At least she keeps a better hold on her phone, but Benjamin’s crashes to the ground, one sharp corner catching on Bernie’s foot, and it comes to rest a few inches away, both covers splayed open and a few expensive pages crushed beneath.

“Oh, God dammit,” the woman says, truly annoyed. She fiddles for a moment with her phone as she turns the screen off, and it gives Bernie a chance to catch her breath.

Whoever the other woman is, she’s beautiful, Bernie thinks to herself as she pulls her fringe down across her eyes and ducks to pick up Benjamin’s. Short, dark hair; rather cool brown eyes that Bernie can just imagine flashing at her on the other side of a mediation table as she makes arguments and counter-arguments; thin, clever lips painted a raspberry red... Bernie jerks away from her thoughts in a rush as she glances upwards and realises she’s still crouched on the floor, holding Benjamin’s, and... one of the woman’s eyebrows is raised at her.

Bernie straightens up abruptly. “Here,” she says, offering the book to her.

Dom jumps in. “Serena, this is our newest tenant, Bernie Wolfe QC. Bernie, Serena Campbell QC. As a matter of fact, Bernie, your office is just down the hall from Serena’s.”

“Oh, the famous Ms Wolfe,” Serena says, and Bernie must be imagining the way her eyes light up, the way she glances at Bernie, almost coy, as she offers her a handshake. And then - “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“As have I,” Bernie says, and she smiles, just a little, as Serena’s own smile grows and Bernie is transfixed.

“Oh - I hope I didn’t damage that,” Bernie remembers to say after a few moments, gesturing to the book.

“This? No, don’t worry about it,” Serena hefts it in one hand. “It’s been through worse.”

“I’m sorry, Serena,” Dom interjects eventually. “I do have to show Bernie her office.”

“Of course,” Serena says, and she smiles at Bernie and turns to leave, one hand in her pocket reaching for her phone.

Bernie turns back to the corridor, feeling oddly bereft, and then -

“Ms Wolfe,” the call comes echoing down the corridor, and Bernie whirls around. Serena is walking backwards towards reception as she talks. “Come for drinks tonight with me, will you? I’ll find you after work and we can go on together.”

“I, ahh,” Bernie trails off, thinks briefly of Marcus, their empty house, their empty lives. One night couldn’t hurt. She’ll start again tomorrow. “That would be lovely, I’d be delighted.”

“Great,” Serena grins. “I’ll see you at five.” And with that she turns around and begins walking forward again as she waves a jaunty little wave back at Bernie. Oddly charmed, Bernie spins back on one heel, ignoring the thoughtful look on Dom’s face. “Right. Where’s this office?”

That night, Serena takes Bernie to a tiny bar a few streets from Holby Court. Bernie pulls open the door and lets Serena walk in first, and if her free hand hovers in the air a few inches away from the small of Serena’s back, it’s only a friendly gesture, nothing more. When they walk in, the bar is little more than a hole in the wall, but its walls are lined with bookshelves and there are a few cozy-looking chairs scattered around low tables, lit by lights with green lampshades and brass fittings.

“This is beautiful,” Bernie mumbles, glancing around as Serena tugs her towards the bartender.

“Glass of Shiraz, please,” Serena calls towards the bartender, who instantly looks her way. “Oh - no, make it a bottle, and my friend will have - Bernie?”

“Oh,” Bernie fumbles for a moment. “Uhh, I’ll have a whiskey, thanks. Lagavulin, if you have it.”

They collect their drinks and make their way to a table nestled in one corner of the bar. The light from the lampshades casts a tawny glow over Serena’s face, catching in her short auburn hair and setting it flickering alight. For once, the conversation flows easily, Bernie shrugging off her habitual diffidence and getting stuck into a conversation about the current state of the legal fraternity.

“It doesn’t affect me,” Serena says, “because shipping isn’t exactly an area with many legally aided clients, but the recent changes to legal aid are just unsustainable.”

Bernie nods. Serena’s eyes, fixed on hers, are dark with concern.

“And the effect on criminal and family law barristers…” Serena trails off, takes a long sip of her wine. “I know of far too many good barristers who have been unable to make the financial side of the business work.”

“And this has unbelievably concerning implications for the rule of law in this country,” Bernie muses, “to say nothing of the implications for ordinary people.”

“Precisely. How are people meant to defend themselves? How are women meant to navigate custody disputes or obtain legal protection from the family court process without representation?” Serena shrugs. “A friend of mine from law school has a junior barrister in his set - ten years’ experience, I think - who was paid £46.50 for a full day hearing.”

“And that has to cover travel and preparation time, doesn’t it.”

“Not to mention tax, chambers’ rent, pensions, insurance, et cetera,” Serena says. She laughs, a dry, angry rasp of a sound, and shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m sure this isn’t what you wanted to talk about over a drink. It makes me so angry.”

“No,” Bernie murmurs, “I get it. I had no idea it had become this bad since I went to Ecuador.”

“This bad and more,” Serena says. “But tell me - what were you doing in Ecuador?”

“A mix of things,” Bernie says, shifting her weight in her seat. “I represented the Ecuadorian government in the West Energy trade arbitration, which took up most of my time there. But I also spent some time working with an NGO in Sucumbíos, a little place in the Amazonia province where Texaco used to have an oil field.”

“I imagine that was quite an eye-opener.” Serena leans forward, propping her chin on her hand.

“Just unbelievable,” Bernie sighs. “The amount of environmental neglect I saw - you know, that place was the most incredibly lush green jungle before Texaco got there in the sixties. And when Ecuador withdrew its license to drill, Chevron, which bought Texaco out, left huge pools of waste water all over the place, left open to the air or covered with a thin layer of soil. Except it’s not water at all; it’s a toxic oil sludge mix which is the byproduct of the drilling process. It poisoned the land, Serena, and it’s poisoning the people even today; and Chevron basically shrugged their shoulders when they left Ecuador and said, ‘not our fucking problem, buddy! That’s your responsibility to remediate!’”

She realises she’s been nearly shouting, clutching her whiskey glass so tightly her knuckles have gone white, and she sets it carefully down on the table, covering her face briefly with her free hand. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s alright, don’t apologise. It is a travesty.” And then Serena leans even further forward in her chair, and covers Bernie’s hand on the table with her own. Bernie’s eyes widen. Her skin is so soft, and her grip so strong, so strangely reassuring. Eventually Bernie kicks her brain into gear and flips her hand over to return Serena’s grip, palm to palm, fingers interlaced.She glances up at Serena through her fringe, and watches as the corners of Serena’s lips twitch up and she smiles, eyes kind.

After a few moments, Serena says, “It sounds like you were doing much-needed work in Ecuador.”

“It was the highlight of my professional existence, that I had the knowledge and the skills to advise that NGO and the indigenous peoples it represented. I honestly felt like I was making a real difference, as idealistic and naive as that sounds, and my colleagues were…” She trails off for a moment, remembering Alex’s dark eyes and insistent, clever mouth. She gathers her courage, wanting to be honest for Serena. “Wonderful,” she finishes, under her breath. “But my husband and I decided we should try to make a go of things, so. Here I am.”

“Do you want to? Make a go of things, that is.”

Bernie gapes.

“I’m - sorry,” Serena shakes her head abruptly, and a flash of some dark emotion crosses her face. “That was rude, you don’t have to answer that.”

“No,” Bernie says, after a pause. She feels lost in Serena’s gaze, like she’s daydreaming the way she used to in high school, plotting out her escape. “I think it’s a good idea, us making a go of things. Better for the kids. And it’s what you’re meant to do, isn’t it? Even, even if...”

Serena is still and quiet on the other side of the table, her dark eyes steady on Bernie’s, and that and the whiskey loosen Bernie’s tongue and she says, all in a rush, “It’s not easy for me, this kind of thing. I don’t - I don’t love him in that way. I’m not sure I know how to love him. But throwing away nearly twenty years of marriage is... useless, there’s no point, and it’s not like I’d know how to be happy even if I - even if I found someone I could - ”

There’s a brief pause as Bernie shuts her mouth, audibly grinding her teeth.

“Oh, hell,” she mumbles eventually. “I’m sorry - I don’t know why I’m telling you this, it’s not fair to you - ”

But a flash of pain crosses Serena’s face, her lips twisting in a sympathetic hint of a grimace. Serena’s hand is still clasped in hers. Neither moves for the longest time, and the silence is warm like a worn-in cardigan.

Eventually, hours or maybe years later, they stand up to leave. Serena insists on paying, even though Bernie argues as they’re standing in the queue. Serena says Bernie can pay next time, that it’s only right that she, Serena, should pay tonight, and reluctantly, Bernie agrees.

She’s reluctant again when they’re standing outside, bundled in their scarves against the chilly air. She lingers, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as Serena rummages in her bag for her car keys. But eventually, the moment can’t be put off any longer, and she glances at Serena, whose hair is haloed in silvery light from the street lamps. It lends an otherworldly cast to the glint of her dark eyes, and abruptly Bernie is struck by the idea that this is borrowed time, that this is not the real world but some dream she’s been gifted, even if only for a fleeting moment. It knocks her out of her peaceful state of mind, and she coughs slightly before pulling her umbrella out of her bag, even though it’s not raining.

“Well,” she says. “I’d better...”

“Yes,” Serena says, gazing at her steadily. “I still have submissions to write for the Ashborn case.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Serena nods.

“Good night, then,” Bernie says.

“Good night.”

She starts to turn away, a faint, polite smile on her lips, but only makes it two steps before she thinks, “I wish - I want -”

And with a sinking sense almost like fatalism, she turns around, marches back to Serena and kisses her on the cheek. It’s perfunctory enough to be almost friendly, but the way Serena gazes at her, dark eyes blazing, is anything but platonic. But Bernie’s exhausted her courage today, and so she wheels around and walks away, waving one hand awkwardly behind her as she goes.

The next morning, Dom rushes into her office while she’s eyeball-deep in a reconciliation sheet of an American oil company’s last quarterly earnings. Spreadsheets are strewn all over her - eye-wateringly large and no doubt mind-bogglingly expensive - kauri desk, and at the sound of the door opening she raises one hand in a quelling motion. The door slides shut more quietly than it opened, and she scribbles a few more comments in the margin before pulling her glasses off and letting them drop onto a nearby pile of affidavits.

“Whichever clown was defending the Nicaraguan government before me, Dom - I don’t want to know who it was,” she says, rubbing at her eyes with two fingers. “If I knew I’d be tempted to go toe-to-toe with them, and I doubt the Standards Committee would take a kindly view of that.”

Dom grins, leaning himself against the bookshelf perpendicular to Bernie’s desk, before he remembers why he’s here.

“So,” he begins casually. “You and Serena went out for drinks last night?”

Bernie keeps her head down, but her eyes dart sideways and her pulse quickens, just a little. She takes a deep breath, then two. “Yes, we did.” She pauses. Steels herself. Looks up at Dom.

But to her surprise he doesn’t look suspicious, or angry, or any of the other hundred emotions she might have anticipated. His expression is completely devoid of judgment, as he says, “No, that’s good - I’m glad. She’s a good person and a good colleague, if you get to know her.I was just surprised, that’s all.”

One of Bernie’s eyebrows launches itself skyward. “Why are you surprised?”

“She usually never goes to anything after work that isn’t for the clients. It’s just not a priority for her.”

“Oh?” Bernie feels a warm glow bubble cautiously up in her chest.

“Mmm.” Dom shrugs, pushes himself off the bookshelf, shifts his weight from foot to foot. “You should be pleased. Not everyone gets to go for drinks with Serena Campbell.”

He smiles and walks out, closing the door carefully behind him. At her desk, meanwhile, Bernie is left to stare into the middle distance of her office wall, wondering exactly what Dom meant by all that.

Life goes on. Bernie wins the first interlocutory application in a case that, judging by the intransigence of opposing counsels’ clients, promises to drag on for a while. She celebrates with Serena that night, sharing a bottle of Shiraz from chipped mugs in Serena’s airy, spacious office while the red-streaked sunset waxes and wanes outside the window.

A few weeks later, when one of Serena’s cases finally settles, Bernie provides the liquor and they sit in Bernie’s room to share it. They start off sitting in the two elegant, uncomfortable chairs Bernie keeps in her office for clients - uncomfortable to discourage long meetings - but a few minutes later Serena sighs and stands up, moving over to the stretch of empty wall by one of the bookshelves and toeing gently at one of Bernie’s still-unpacked boxes of books. When she’s moved it a few centimetres she sets her glass on top and sits down on the floor, letting her head roll back against the wall as she works out the strain in her shoulders.

“Come,” she says to Bernie. The tall standing lamp by the bookshelf on the other half of the wall casts a golden glow across her face as she smiles, slow and burgeoning. “Sit over here.”

Bernie gapes, struck silent by the look on Serena’s face; she’s not afraid to admit that. But she goes, against her better judgment, and she sits down a careful distance from Serena, thighs precisely at least ten centimetres apart, left hand on her thigh and right hand clutching her glass. It’s ruined by the way Serena moves closer, like burning-hot Venus orbiting the sun, desperate for all the warmth she can get. Bernie can feel the heat of Serena’s thigh radiating against her own, despite the gap, and she takes an ill-advisedly large gulp of her whiskey. In her peripheral vision she can see Serena gesticulating as she talks about the case, her strong fingers expressive and animated, and she has to swallow harshly, and look away.

It all goes to hell, of course, although this time Bernie is fairly sure it’s not her fault. At least, not entirely.

Mostly.

By spring, Bernie’s practice is starting to pick up in a big way. She’s been asked to continue some of her previous advisory work for the Ecuadorian government, which - if she’s being honest with herself - takes more time than she really has. She’s helping Serena out on the trade law aspects of a shipping case which involves a charterparty chain of contracts and the provisions of at least two free trade agreements. She’s acting with Ric on a construction case which involves the importation of faulty bricks from an overseas manufacturer. And she has her own cases, which are steadily growing in number. She’s delighted, really; this is exactly what she hoped would happen when she moved back to London from Ecuador.

Occasionally, she nods hello to Marcus in the early morning before she leaves for her runs, when he’s still mostly asleep. She barely ever sees him at night now, and she feels less sad about that than she might have hoped. And although she sometimes thinks fleetingly of Alex, still fighting the good fight in Sucumbíos, the deep, grating pain in the middle of her chest which she used to feel has vanished.

She would be happier about that if it wasn’t that sometimes, in the middle of the night when she can’t sleep and her hand slips down past her hipbones to curl, warm and slick, into herself, the image her mind conjures up is Serena, dark eyes meeting hers, tongue insistent against her clit. She berates herself in the morning, but, as busy and as overworked as she is, she lacks the mental control to force her mind to stop.

Later, afterwards, she tells herself that must be why it happens. Deep down, it’s all just a matter of control.

By April, the Nicaraguan case is heading for its first interlocutory hearing. It’s an application for summary judgment by the American oil company - they’re arguing that they have such a watertight case that Nicaragua couldn’t possibly defend itself, and so the tribunal should just rule now in their favour without going to the expense of a full hearing. Summary judgment applications get on Bernie’s nerves. Goddamn unfair, particularly in these types of matters, and a waste of time and Bernie’s billable hours. But it has to be defended, and so she and Morven, the junior barrister assigned to the case, swing into action.

One chilly morning in mid-April, Bernie stops by Morven’s desk. Morven has a tiny desk in one corner of the open-plan area, overshadowed by a computer with two large screens and a huge bookcase stuffed full of folders and textbooks. This morning, she’s hunched over her computer doing discovery work. She turns to smile at Bernie as she approaches, and - if she weren’t in exactly the same state herself - Bernie would be a little concerned to see the dark bags under her eyes.

“Look,” Bernie says, “there’s a meeting today with our instructing solicitor for the Nicaragua case at 2:00. You should be there, alright?”

Morven glances reflexively down at her diary and nods. “I have a meeting with Serena at 3:00, but that should be fine.”

“Sounds good. Doing ok with discovery?”

Morven nods. “It’s a slow process, but I’m getting there.”

“You’re doing well,” Bernie says, and Morven grins back at her like a sunflower opening to the sun, still unused to Bernie’s rare praise. God, Bernie thinks. Was she ever that young, that eager for a kind word?

Lunchtime arrives faster than Bernie might like. She eats at her desk as she prepares for the meeting in the afternoon, shuffling between her draft notice of opposition for the summary judgment application, the solicitor’s summary of the matter, and her own copious pages of handwritten notes. At quarter to two exactly, she stands up and marches out to the kitchen, tips the rest of her lunch into the bin, and goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth. At two, she collects Morven and, both carrying piles of documents, they sweep into the chambers’ reception area, where they collect the solicitors and - this is unexpected! a number of representatives from the client’s embassy here in London - and seclude themselves in one of the grand meeting rooms.

Bernie’s been a lawyer a long time. She’s been in enough difficult meetings to know that it usually takes some time before a meeting breaks down in a shouting fit - people need time to work themselves up into real rage. But this one goes completely, irretrievably sideways less than two minutes after everyone piles into the meeting room, and it’s admittedly unexpected. Charles, her instructing solicitor, is a tall man with silvery hair and a number of irritatingly precise mannerisms. Normally Bernie is fine with it, but there’s something deeply grating about the way in which he spends precious moments of their billable time arranging the pens alongside his legal pad while Hermann, the embassy’s chief legal officer, finishes telling everyone what they already know about the case.

It’s left to Bernie to explain to Hermann that no, we cannot simply ignore the application for summary judgment.

“Why not?” he asks, turning to Charles. “There is no substance in the application and it would save money if we do not answer it.”

Charles glances surreptitiously at Bernie, who hoists her smile back on her face.

“Two reasons,” she says. “One, although the burden of proof here is on the plaintiff to prove that we do not have a defence, in practical terms, the arbitral panel will be more inclined to believe the plaintiff’s argument that we don’t have a defence if we don’t oppose their application.”

She glances at Hermann to make sure he’s understood. Nicaragua is a civil law jurisdiction, not common law, so this case involves different procedures and attitudes to legal processes than what he’s used to. But it shouldn’t be this hard to grasp. Really.

“Two,” she plunges on, “we need to fight every single aspect of this case so the plaintiff doesn’t think they’ve got the upper hand just because we decide not to oppose an application. I know it’s a lot of work and time and money, for all of us, but you’ll remember that we agreed this at our first strategy meeting last year.”

Charles leans forward, the buttons of his dove-grey wool suit clinging gently against the glass table-top. He glances at Bernie before turning to the clients. “That said, Hermann, this is a decision which we could revisit, if you would like.”

“Well, only to a degree,” Bernie says perhaps a little more sharply than she intends. Beside her, she’s aware of Morven tensing, in the age-old tradition of juniors who are abruptly aware that their seniors are heading into a no-holds-barred fight.

“Oh, everything can be revisited, Bernie,” Charles says genially.

Bernie tries to restrain the urge to tell him to call her Berenice, like how it’s spelt on her name plaque. It’s impossible to miss, it’s on the front door right by the bell. No, it’s petty, it’s petty... “Berenice,” she spits. Clears her throat. “Um. Not this, I’m afraid. The notice of opposition is nearly complete and I have to note that it’s tactically in our client’s best interest to pursue it.”

“And yet our client is saying now that they would, perhaps, rather not do so.” Charles performs one of his irritatingly precise mannerisms as he waves gently with one hand towards Hermann and his assistant, who’s looking on, bug-eyed.

“You will remember during our first strategy meeting,” Bernie begins, feeling her forehead tighten as if in a vice. She’s aware she wasn’t Charles’ first choice of barrister, but the embassy wanted her... A corner of paper nudges her elbow and she reaches down for it. Bless Morven. “You will remember during our first strategy meeting that we decided, I quote, ‘despite the greater legal resources of Conch Energy it is important that Nicaragua should not be seen to be weak in response to an FTA claim. This matter has two aspects and both are equally important: the legal and the public relations. Nicaragua should therefore vigorously pursue its defence and should not waive its right to oppose an interlocutory application simply for reasons of time or money.’” She hands the meeting minutes back to Morven and folds her hands. “If Nicaragua wishes to change its strategy then I must caution against it.”

That’s when everything goes to shit. There’s shouting. Then everyone decides to take a few minutes to regroup. Then they try talking again, and then there’s more shouting. Despite her absolute grim-eyed frustration with Charles, Bernie throws herself almost bodily into the argument.

The meeting ends at 4:30. Less has been resolved than Bernie would like; it’s not so much that they’ve reached consensus than that they have become tired of arguing. Bernie and Charles, with their respective juniors, are the last to leave the room. At the door, he turns around, two bulky folders under one arm, and sighs. Bernie pastes a friendly look on her face.

“Look,” he hesitates, but plunges on. “I have to tell you that I don’t always agree with your theory in this case. I think your approach to procedure can be unnecessarily pedantic. And I don’t share your view of the risk involved in failing to oppose Conch’s interlocutory application.”

Bernie stiffens. She’s going to murder Charles if he insists on opening up all the decisions they’ve just made, everything they’ve hammered out in this monster meeting.She’s going to murder him and dump his body in the Thames, and to hell with the prison sentence or the fact that her career will be over. It’ll be worth it.

“But I respect the fact that Hermann and the Ambassador wanted you on board,” he continues, hoisting a folder up from where it’s starting to slip down his leg. “I’m familiar with your experience in Ecuador and previously. I trust your judgment, even if I don’t always agree with it. I hope we cancontinue to work together.”

Bernie blinks, genuinely surprised. “Of course, Charles. But we’re going to have to figure out a way to hash out our disagreements without dragging our client into it.”

He nods, and juggles his folders until he can stick his right hand out to shake. “Thanks. I’ll call you in the next few days and we can talk things through.”

He and his junior disappear after that, and Bernie is left alone in the room with Morven. It’s not the first tense meeting Morven has sat through, but she looks shaken, and she sucks in a deep breath before letting it out slowly.

“Alright?” Bernie asks, shuffling papers back into her folder.

“Yeah!” Morven says, a little too brightly. “Yeah. I just... wow.”

Bernie nods. “You get used to it. Or you eventually decide that you’re right, dammit, and everybody else should go to hell. Give yourself ten years.”

“Oh no...”

To Bernie’s surprise Morven sounds genuinely scared, and so Bernie glances up. Morven’s gazing at her phone, looking oddly pale.

“What’s happened?”

“My meeting with Serena at 3. I’m sorry Bernie, I have to - ” Morven starts to rush out of the room, before thinking better of it and rushing back in to collect her laptop. “What shall I...?”

Bernie thinks, fleetingly, Shit, she’s not going to be happy about this, but knows better than to say that to Morven. Instead, she says, “Look, don’t worry about it, I’ll smooth things over with Serena. You go back to your desk, ok?”

Morven nods, looking grateful, and rushes back out of the room.

Bernie leaves the room two minutes later, and manages to get through reception and into the staff-only area before she spies Serena, storming out of her office and down the hallway. Serena is between Bernie and her own office, and the look in her eyes makes Bernie seriously consider ducking into one of the empty conference rooms and pretending to disappear. How embarrassing. She clenches her jaw and walks a little faster.

“Bernie,” Serena calls. Shit. “I need a word.”

“Want to talk in my office?”

“No, I want to talk right here, Bernie.”

Bernie groans, but she’s careful to do it under her breath. “The meeting with Charles and Hermann went over time. It turned into an absolute shitshow, Serena, it - ”

“You knew I needed Morven at my meeting at three!” Serena’s marched right up to Bernie and they’re almost toe to toe, Bernie nearly backed against the cream wall, pristine and unmarked. Serena’s eyes are wild, and it shouldn’t be as intriguing as it is.

“I’m sorry your timetable got screwed over but there was no way I could have predicted that meeting going off the rails.” Bernie pushes herself off the wall, back into Serena’s personal space, and it’s enormously gratifying to see Serena’s breath quicken. God, they’re so alike, it’s intoxicating.

“I don’t give a shit what happened, Bernie,” Serena spits. “That was an important call for the Petroperevozflot matter and I needed my junior on it to take the notes.”

“She’s not your junior,” Bernie says.

She thinks suddenly that she might have crossed a line, because Serena’s eyes flash and she sounds genuinely angry when she hisses, “Don’t you fucking talk to me like that.”

“Don’t you - ” Bernie’s eyes widen and she steps forward, a sharp movement like a leopard about to attack. “Don’t you fucking tell me what to say.”

“You don’t have a single goddamn clue,” Serena starts, staring directly at Bernie, and hazily, Bernie realises she’s backed Serena against the wall in the hallway, an inch between them and nowhere to go. And Serena is visibly, obviously furious with her, chest rising and falling with each rapid breath, and still her eyes are on Bernie’s lips, a flush crawling up her chest and neck.

Abruptly, Bernie realises the warmth in her belly is the glowing flames of arousal. She shivers involuntarily, staring at Serena, and the rage in Serena’s eyes fades to something like a helpless heat...

And then Bernie wrenches herself away and walks off, before she can do something she shouldn’t, before she can ruin everything, _again_.

God _damm_ it.

Bernie buries herself in work for the rest of the day. It’s not hard to do her work and ignore her problems - she’s up to her eyeballs in the stuff - but she feels weirdly unbalanced; nervous and distracted in a way she hasn’t since she was a junior barrister, years ago.

It’s almost eight at night before she gets the guts to come out of her room. She grabs a glass from her desk before she ventures out, glancing in either direction before she heads off down the hallway and hating herself for it.

The juniors have all left, as have the reception staff, the secretaries and the paralegals. Unusually, most of the senior barristers seem to have left too; as she pads through the chambers she hears nothing but the faint sound of the air conditioning. But this is a barristers’ chambers, not a coffee shop after hours: someone else must still be around apart from her.

Eventually, glass of water clutched in her hand like a shield, she finds the sole other person in the building: Serena. She’s sitting in her office staring daggers at the comically (depressingly) huge pile of documents on her desk, a pen gripped tightly in her hand. Inwardly, Bernie quails: Serena looks like the force of her anger hasn’t lessened one iota since their confrontation in the hallway earlier.She takes a deep breath - in for three, out for three - squares her shoulders the same way she does before a tough judge, and knocks.

Serena’s shoulders freeze.

There’s a long pause.

Then Bernie says, “It’s me. Am I disturbing you?”

Serena lets out a soft, trembling breath, a release of tension that’s more seen than heard. “No,” she murmurs.

Bernie’s heart sinks. “Oh. I’ll, uhh. I’ll come back - ”

She starts to withdraw from the doorway, levering herself away from the jamb. Serena glances towards her, a whip-fast flick that she feels shiver over her skin. Bernie glances away immediately, unwilling to reveal the way she’s been drinking in the sight of Serena the same way a desperate woman in a desert might fall to her knees before the sea shore.

“No, you infuriating woman,” Serena says eventually, pushing herself out of her chair with two hands on the desk. “Stay. Please.”

Bernie shudders in a deep breath, and feels the pit at the bottom of her stomach begin to dissipate. She takes a step inside, closing the heavy wooden door behind her, and takes a gulp of her water. She glances at Serena to check, and when Serena twitches one eyebrow in a minute movement she nods, setting the glass down on Serena’s desk.

Hands free, Bernie lets them hang, deceptively relaxed, at her side. “I thought we should talk,” she starts, and clears her throat. “I don’t want to leave things where they were this afternoon.”

Anger flares, bright and hot, behind Serena’s eyes, and she folds her arms.

“Look,” she begins, “It’s not that I don’t get it. I know you’ve been up to your eyeballs with the Conch case - ”

“God,” Bernie mumbles, slumping against the wall. “It’s been a fucking nightmare, Serena, I can’t tell you how bad it is.”

“Bad enough that you think you’re going to lose?” Serena snaps. It’s a question but it’s... it’s an interrogation, Bernie realises, and she flushes. “Bad enough that you forgot to let me know that my junior couldn’t make it to my meeting?”

“Morven works for all three of us, Serena; you, me, Ric. She’s not your junior.”

Serena takes a few measured steps closer, pacing the way she must in front of a judge. Bernie’s never seen her in court, but there’s a physicality to her; she’s a single streak of lean, taut muscle underneath her patterned shirt. Distantly, Bernie thinks Serena must be a formidable counsel. More immediately, Bernie realises she’s flushing again, and there’s a tight coil in her stomach.

Serena murmurs, formulating the question in the classic cross-examination style, “Don’t you think that makes her, at least partially, my junior? After all, she is on my cases.”

Bernie opens her mouth, and promptly trips over her words.

Serena seizes the gap. “Why are you so concerned about this anyway?”

Bernie’s eyes snap to Serena’s, abruptly closer than before. Serena’s voice had been soft, but her eyes are alive with a turbulent mix of emotions: Bernie thinks she sees anger there, and... something that looks oddly like concern. And lurking behind it all, the gleaming fire of someone who feels most truly alive in a fight, throwing herself headlong into the fray. It’s so clearly sexual, and so similar to Bernie’s own feelings, that she is momentarily undone.

She pushes herself off the wall, dragging herself into Serena’s orbit, and kisses her.

There’s a brief moment of shock.

Bernie wraps one hand around Serena’s waist and one around her shoulder, thrilling at her warmth and the feeling of her hips. Serena shudders under Bernie’s hands and comes alive, kissing her back abruptly, vehemently, less a seduction than a fight. Bernie slides one hand up her ribs, thrilling at the warmth radiating through Serena’s silk shirt; Serena pulls away from her mouth and starts kissing down her throat, a long, hot slide that threatens teeth. Bernie gasps and pulls away for a moment.

“Do you - ” she begins, and groans as Serena bites down by her clavicle. “ - want this?”

“Yes,” Serena grits out, “now shut the fuck up and - ah!”

Bernie has twisted them around and Serena’s back hits the wall with a muted thump. Her eyes fly open, pupils blown wide and she groans, involuntary as if it’s wrenched out of the most secret part of her. Bernie’s hand has migrated to the underside of Serena’s breast, almost entirely unconsciously, and Bernie sighs as she is trusted to the heavy weight of her in her palm.

“Fuck, you’re...” Bernie mumbles, as Serena’s fingers track a heated path up her spine. “Can I - ” she pulls Serena’s shirt out of her belt and trails her hand around her back towards the clasp of her bra, and the heat from Serena’s skin scorches her, burns her like a phoenix.

Serena pulls away from the kisses she’s been bestowing on Bernie’s neck to say, “Only if I can see yours.”

“You - really want to,” Bernie trails off, gazing at Serena, who is comically, obviously, rolling her eyes at her.

“Yes, Bernie, fuck, I want to see you.” Serena pulls away a little, as far as she can move with the wall at her back, and starts pulling at the buttons on her shirt. “I’ve wanted to since you bumped into me on your first day here, made me drop that stupid textbook.”

“You... have?” Bernie feels the coil of arousal in the pit of her stomach flare.

“Yes,” Serena says, a little muffled because she’s pulling her chemise over her head. She pulls it off and throws it towards the other side of the room. It lands somewhere with a soft whump and neither of them turn to look at it, because their gazes are locked together and Serena’s fingers are wrapped around her bra clasp. Her eyes on Bernie’s the entire time, she undoes it with a deft twist and lets the bra fall.

“Oh,” Bernie whispers, so soft, reaching out to trace the path of the vein that runs from Serena’s armpit to her areola, blue-green under her pale skin. She retraces its path with her tongue as she wraps her hand around Serena’s waist, and Serena whimpers, a raw sound tugged from her chest, and wraps her fingers in Bernie’s short hair. It’s a feedback loop of arousal: the tug of Serena’s fingers in her hair, the feeling of Serena’s warm, erect nipple on her tongue, the sound of Serena’s gasps above her, loud in the echoing room.

Abruptly impatient, Bernie starts unbuttoning her own shirt, awkwardly with her one free hand. Serena’s hands join hers, and together they strip Bernie of her clothes until she is standing before Serena naked apart from her underpants. There’s the briefest pause, a breath suspended between them, and then Serena leans forward and engulfs Bernie’s nipple in her mouth.

A shock: the heat of Serena’s mouth lights Bernie up, sets her on fire, and she winds her hands into Serena’s short hair and holds her there as she licks and bites, the merest hint of pain. Bernie gasps, a tiny, shuddering sound, wrenched out of her. Serena’s dark eyes flick up and hold her gaze, pupils blown wide, and she twists her fingers in Serena’s hair and pulls, just a little. Serena’s open-mouthed groan against her breast fills her with a wild kind of joy and she grins, fiercely. She pulls Serena away and kisses her again, licking into her mouth as she struggles with Serena’s belt, showing her with her tongue what she plans to do as soon as she can kneel before her. 

Four hands push Serena’s trousers down, impatient and nearly shaking. Serena steps out of them and kicks them away, fine linen discarded on the hardwood floor. Her eyes are locked on Bernie, dark and impatient, and Bernie sighs through her nose, biting her lip as she breaks her gaze to glance downwards, down Serena’s stomach, riven with the faintest of silvery stretch marks to the place where her thighs meet. Bernie glances back and opens her mouth to ask, are you sure? or maybe, do you want this? but there is no uncertainty in Serena’s eyes and she lifts her chin, capturing Bernie’s eyes with a gaze that holds the faintest hint of arrogance and a wholehearted challenge.

Bernie feels an abrupt pulse of arousal shiver deep inside her, and she slides slowly to the floor, holding that dark, challenging gaze the whole time. She keeps her eyes locked on Serena as she slides both hands up Serena’s legs, as she grasps Serena’s knees and runs her thumbs up the inside of her thighs. There’s a brief, gratifying moment when she feels a tremor run unbidden through Serena’s entire body, evidence she can’t control that demonstrates exactly how aroused she is, exactly what effect Bernie is having.

Bernie grins, delighted, thrilled at the idea of making the Ice Queen lose control. Serena shifts above her, widening her stance, and oh - Bernie can smell the scent of her, salt-sharp and sweet, like the finest pomegranates during the height of summer. She groans aloud, and dives in, licking deep between Serena’s lips. Above her, Serena shudders, eyes wide, and her hands drift to twine into Bernie’s hair almost unbidden. Bernie groans again, loud in the soundproofed office, and begins eating her out in earnest.

She licks in alternating, random strokes, brushing close to her clit but never directly touching it, never letting her pattern become predictable, letting Serena’s arousal build but never quite giving her enough to come. After a few minutes, Serena has left her deliberate, controlled silence behind and is letting out tiny gasps on every intake of breath. Bernie glances upwards: Serena’s face is flushed all the way down to her chest, and her eyes are tightly shut, fierce, concentrating.

“More.” Serena’s voice is a low rasp in the back of her throat. “I want your fingers inside me.”

Bernie shudders, one hand spasming against Serena’s hip, and she fills her with two fingers, curling back towards her, slipping over Serena’s slick inner walls. Serena writhes above her, clutching at the wall, at her own breast, at Bernie’s hair. Her grip sends sweet shocks of pain through Bernie’s scalp and she groans against Serena’s clit.

Serena shoves herself against Bernie’s mouth, impatient, desperate for release, and Bernie shoves back, giving her more, giving her everything she has as she spirals up and up and up and -

The wave breaks and Serena is lost in the apex of her pleasure, focus turned wholly inwards as she cries out, a primal, inarticulate sound of joy and release. Bernie keeps going throughout it all, although her tongue is on the verge of cramping and Serena’s wetness is drenching her hand to the wrist. She moans against Serena’s clit, half out of her mind with Serena’s reflected pleasure and her own feeling of sheer incredulity that she is here on her knees on the hardwood floor, doing this, at this time with this woman.

In the liminal space where Serena’s breath is still uneven and she is still shuddering from the aftershocks of her orgasm, Bernie carefully, slowly, pulls her fingers away. She lets herself sit back on her heels as she stares at her hand, slick with Serena’s moisture. Her own arousal throbs through her, but it is oddly muted, and she feels almost unreal, as if she is in a dream as she moves her hand to her mouth and licks over her fingers, tasting Serena at her most vital, her most alive.

She drifts her hand down her body, brushing teasingly over her nipples and breasts, down her chest to her mons. Her touch leaves Serena’s wetness wherever she goes, invisible yet visible, reflecting the golden light of the office’s lamps, and the scent of Serena’s sex hangs heavy in the air. She feels... marked, ontologically changed; as if everyone can see what she and Serena have done, as if everyone can see what she is. Bernie’s eyes slip shut as she pushes two fingers inside her cunt; reality is a hazy thing and she feels woozy, wrung dry of anger and of grief. She sighs, feeling the world slip around her as she fucks herself slowly on her hand, Serena’s wetness mingling with her own and slicking the way. After a few moments she lets her hand fall still, lets herself kneel there, naked on the wooden floor, feeling the pressure of her hand between her thighs, the tiny electric shocks of arousal thrumming through her clit, nearly untouched, and her nipples, erect in the overheated air. How strange it is, she thinks fleetingly, that she should be doing this again - here, now - when this is all she has ever run from. How strange that despite all her fears, all her everyday terror, she has never found a single glimpse of relief anywhere but here, in rooms both like and utterly unlike this one, with the same scent of a woman’s sex hanging low in the air, with a woman in her arms. How alone she is! How alone she must always be - and she pulls her hand away to hide the tears that are threatening to fall in the silence.

“Let me.”

Bernie opens her eyes.

Serena has slipped down to sit on her heels, her back to the wall. Her face is still flushed and her hair is sticking up in the back where the wall has messed it up, but at this time, in this place, Bernie thinks she might be the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Bernie blinks, and when she opens her eyes again Serena has moved forward, placing one hand carefully on Bernie’s thigh. She glances up at her, and Serena’s face is open, kind; eyes calm and a faint smile playing about her lips.

“If you don’t want to, it’s alright, but... I’d like to.”

“Like to what?” Bernie asks, glancing down at Serena’s hands as she twines their fingers together.

“Eat you out,” Serena says, her voice low.

Bernie shivers, and it’s enough to jolt her out of her daze, bring her back into the present. She leans forward to kiss Serena, fierce like a talisman, like a secret meant only for them.

Serena pushes her back to lie on the floor, and this time she’s gentle, so very careful as she kisses her way down Bernie’s stomach. She pulls gently at Bernie’s thighs, and Bernie lets her legs fall open. She lets Serena kiss her thighs, the ropy muscle at the top of her thighs, the hidden places where leg and pelvis meet.It’s so delicate it’s almost innocent, nearly chaste; and after Serena’s passionate abandon earlier Bernie wonders what game Serena is playing.

“No game,” Serena says, and Bernie realises she’s murmured her question aloud.

She flushes, stammers. But a small part of her is relieved, and when Serena leans up to kiss her she sighs and lets her eyes slide shut as she kisses back, as she slips her tongue inside Serena’s mouth.

It’s a shock, but not unwelcome, when Serena slips two careful fingers against either side of her clit. Her hips jerk against Serena’s hand and she gasps, her hands spasming where they are clutching Serena’s back and her nails scoring briefly against her skin.She tears her mouth away to apologise, to do whatever she can to make it better, but Serena has moved, spurred on by the brief, sharp shock of pain and is sucking a fierce, possessory mark into her neck with all the focus she can muster.

This time, when Serena’s mouth trails down her skin, seeking unerringly the heat of her cunt, she turns incandescent with desire, gasping and whimpering against the cool wood floor. Serena licks into her heat, lips closing against her clit, and she cries out, overcome by sensation as she throws one arm over her eyes, grinding down against Serena’s mouth. Bernie gasps, all the breath shocked out of her, as Serena fills her with two fingers. She is mindless, all feeling, a thing of pleasure and skin and heat as she chases her orgasm, pulling her onwards, higher and higher until all she comprehends is Serena’s fingers in her, Serena’s tongue on her, closer and more intimate than anything she’s ever known, the highest pleasure two women can give each other.

And then she topples, soaring over the cliff edge, crying out in a voice she barely recognises as her own, shuddering so hard her head and shoulders lift off the floor and she clutches, involuntary, at Serena’s dark hair between her legs.

The moment of her orgasm is joy, inviolate, uncontrollable; a demi-paradise Bernie wishes fleetingly she could inhabit forever, cocooned and safe within its golden hold. She cries out again as Serena gentles her through her aftershocks, tongue warm and steady against her, and when Serena finally stills and withdraws she flops backwards, louche and long-limbed, and her hair fans out in a tangled halo against the floor.

She breathes. She is still.

When Serena pulls herself back up her body to flop down beside her, she rolls over and kisses her, tasting herself on Serena’s tongue. It’s an epiphany simply to be here, but a revelation of another magnitude that she can simply be still, trading lazy kisses with Serena, one hand cupping her breast with no intention for now beyond an uncomplicated desire for closeness. All the noise in her head has vanished, all doubts gone, all despair silenced, and she smiles, finally, as she gazes at Serena.

Serena cocks her head, a question in her eyes.

“I like you,” Bernie says. “I’d like to do this again, if - if you’ll have me.”

Serena smiles, and reaches out to smooth back a piece of Bernie’s hair.“It would be,” and her voice cracks, reaches a lower, promise-filled register, “my very great pleasure.”

And then they’re kissing again, Serena’s hand tangling in Bernie’s hair, both as close as they can possibly be. Bernie can feel the tears beginning again, but this time they’re full of joy, and when she finally breaks off kissing to lick her way down Serena’s body again she’s smiling, triumphant, complete.

**Author's Note:**

> Holborn tube station is apparently one of the ones near Lincoln’s Inn, idk, London isn’t my city. But I couldn’t resist changing it a little bit…
> 
> Where the fuck is Sucumbíos / why is Bernie a trade specialist / etc: So, a very long time ago, I did my LLB(Hons) dissertation on Ecuador’s investor-state disputes. Investor-state dispute settlement (ISDS) is where a multinational company can sue a state in an international arbitration tribunal, on the basis that the state has breached its obligations under a trade agreement. Ecuador, that tiny little country sandwiched between Colombia and Brazil, has had an unusually large number of ISDS claims brought against it, by a number of massive (American-owned) companies: Texaco Petroleum suing on behalf of the old Occidental Petroleum and Chevron, among others. Sucumbíos is the province which was the site of the first Occidental-owned oil field in Ecuador. Nueva Loja, once called Lago Agrio, is now a town in Sucumbíos but was once the Texaco base camp. From what I’ve read, it’s an underfunded, underresourced, deprived, crime-filled mess and that is squarely on Texaco’s shoulders. I needed Bernie to be an expert in something I knew a bit about, but more than that, I needed her to be a high-powered lawyer who was genuinely trying to help people. There’s a bit of me in this version of Bernie and a bit of my old dissertation supervisor (<3). 
> 
> Why the fuck did I write this/isn’t this kind of a weird AU/what’s the big idea with the central conceit behind this story? (1) I wrote the majority of this story for pure indulgence reasons back in May when my country was at the tail end of its first lockdown. (2) I haven’t seen a lawyers!Berena AU before so maybe this is kind of a weird AU? But weirdly, I think (I hope) it works.
> 
> Finally, I think this one deserves a disclaimer given the legal content. Two things:  
> 1) Although this fic has a lot of legal content in it, it is not intended as legal advice. Do not rely on it in any way. You should absolutely obtain specialised advice if you have an issue or a dispute which touches on any of the topics discussed in this fic. I disclaim all liability in relation to this fic and/or the discussions of the law contained therein. 
> 
> 2) The characters, scenarios, entities and motifs contained here which appear in the BBC tv series Holby City are used without profit under the transformative works doctrine. Any resemblance on the part of the other characters, scenarios, entities and motifs contained here, to any other individuals, entities or scenarios, living or dead, is purely accidental and should not be taken as any comment on those individuals, entities or scenarios. 
> 
> Last thing: title comes from Taylor Swift’s new song “epiphany”, it’s seriously good, go check it out if you haven’t already. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!


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